


Your Girl

by EllieRose101



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Episode Fix-it, Episode: s05e20 The Girl In Question, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22875649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieRose101/pseuds/EllieRose101
Summary: A re-write of ‘The Girl in Question’ (Angel Season Five, Episode Twenty) in which Spike approaches Buffy in the nightclub scene, he talks to her, and she actually finds out he’s alive.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 83





	1. Teaser

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written for Elysian Fields’ 2017 Reunion Challenge. It ignores everything from the Buffy Season Eight Comics.

“Dancing. Why did it have to be dancing?” griped Angel.

Ignoring him, Spike said to the bartender, “You speak English, Love?”

The bartender nodded, also ignoring the sulking Angel. “Si, si. I love the English.”

Spike flashed her a smile. “We'll get along fine, then.”

“We're looking for a girl,” Angel butted in. “American. Blond hair. Blue eyes.”

“Green.”

Angel turned to Spike. “What?”

“Buffy. She has green eyes, you idiot.”

“No, she– really?”

Spike rolled his eyes and went back to ignoring the elder vampire, turning to the bartender once more. “She's in trouble. This ponce called The Immortal is–”

“Ah, si. Si,” she replied, interrupting as she looked out into the crowd. “The Immortal's new ragazza. They come, while ago… there!” she pointed, and both Angel and Spike looked.

There she was, dancing; hair flying all around her and the light bouncing off it, reminding Spike of a halo.

The sight took his breath away and acted like a homing beacon all at once. He was walking towards her on autopilot, like a moth to a flame, before he had time to think and before Angel had time to say anything else.

It was like an echo of a lifetime before, circling her on the edge of the dance floor as she let loose in the middle of it. This time, though, he didn’t stay on the edge.

Walking straight up to Buffy, Spike put a hand on her shoulder, deliriously happy to be fully corporeal again.

“Buffy,” he said, and she turned around…


	2. Chapter 2

Buffy saw Spike and she stopped; stopped dancing, stopped laughing, and even stopped breathing for a beat, though he could hear her heart rate ratchet up.

Her eyes locked on his and were full of more emotion than she often showed; definitely more than she usually showed him. Except for that last time, when she said it.

The moment elongated to become a stalemate and then, just as suddenly as Spike had returned to Buffy’s life, her eyes slid past him.

“Angel?”

Spike looked over his shoulder to see his grandsire had caught up with him, then back at Buffy in time to watch the Immortal put his hand on her arm and pull her tightly to his chest.

Buffy resisted, shoving the Immortal away, and stomped three steps over to where Angel had stopped.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, her heart still hammering away.

Spike could only watch. She hadn’t said anything to him, and it broke something deep inside that he’d been scared to bring into the light again.

“Buffy, you need to get away from him,” Angel told her, which made her look back at Spike.

He swallowed but could say nothing. For all the speeches he had planned, her name was all he was able to come up with, and it had fallen flat.

“Why?” she asked Angel, her eyes scanning Spike from head to toe. “Is he–“ she hesitated, her voice hard to decipher against the loud music, even with vampire ears. “Is he real?”

Spike was sure he felt his heart flutter.

“The Immortal, Buffy,” said Angel, exasperated, “He’s bad news.”

“Huh?” her eyes broke away from Spike a second time to briefly glance at the Immortal before snapping back to him as if of their own volition, the action more dismissive than words could ever be. Spike almost felt sorry for the bloke. Almost.

The Immortal cleared his throat and took a step towards Buffy as if to take hold of her arm again. Spike thought about stepping between them, but Buffy took a step closer to him instead, out of reach from the other. She was so close, he could feel her breath – warm and shallow – on his face.

“Are you real?”

“Buffy,” Spike said again, the word coming out half strangled.

“Oh my god!” she exclaimed, launching herself into his arms so forcefully, other people had to clear a space around them on the dance floor.

Just then, the bartender tapped Angel on the shoulder. “You left this,” she said, handing the bag they had come in with back to him.

Angel muttered something in reply, but Spike didn’t catch it. His whole world had narrowed, and all he could see, and feel, and focus on was Buffy in his arms. She was holding tightly enough to break the ribs of a mortal man, and he wanted her to grip tighter still.

Oh, god, he could cry. _Buffy, Buffy, Buffy!_ his heart sang. He had her back. But was it really _her_? Spike couldn’t fathom why she would ever waste her time with the bloody Immortal. Then again, Spike wasn’t altogether clear why Buffy wasted her time with Angel, or himself. She was better than the lot of them, to his mind.

In that moment, Spike was telling his mind to take a hike. His nostrils were full of Buffy’s scent, his eyes full of unshed tears, and his heart fit to combusting. There was no way in fuck he was letting her go.

That was until, a minute later, she pulled away, and he let her. Of course he let her. Buffy always did exactly what she wanted, as long as destiny was forcing her hand some other way. That’s where the Immortal – and Spike himself, once – had gone wrong, trying to grab hold when she wanted to slip away. If ever there was a surefire way of losing the girl.

A lump formed in Spike’s throat. He couldn’t bear the thought of it, even if he was about to face the reality.

As he mourned the loss of full body contact, he relished in her keeping hold of his hand.

“Let’s go outside,” she said to the three of them.

\---

In the short walk from the dance floor to the alley outside the club, Spike felt his confidence grow as Buffy’s grip on his hand never wavered.

Outside, the air was warm and humid, but downright refreshing compared to being indoors surrounded by drunken Italians, who Spike found disrespected personal space at the best of times. Not that he could say much for himself on that count. He felt the need to press Buffy tightly against himself but again resisted the urge. As well as it being counterproductive, he was just damn glad to be near her at all. An errant thought about being able to die happy crossed his mind and an involuntary shiver went through him.

Angel was pacing, his forehead furrowed and hands agitated.

“We should go back to your apartment,” he said. “We can talk there.”

“Are you gonna tell me why you’re here?” replied Buffy.

“It’s–” he began, looking down at the bag at his feet before saying, simply, “Mission.”

Buffy frowned at him. “A mission for the good guys or Evil Incorporated? Because I’ve heard some things.”

Spike chuckled and instantly realized it was a mistake when she turned to him. “Didn’t hear about you,” she said, pointedly.

“It’s a–” Spike muttered, feeling bashful.

“Not important,” Angel finished for him.

Spike glared at him and snark re-entered his voice, taking over from the shy awe of a second before. “I was gonna say long story.”

“I’ll bet,” said Buffy. “We can talk it out.”

“Right, we’ll go back to your apartment and–”

“Angel?”

He paused. “What?”

“You’re not invited.”

Spike couldn’t help but smile to himself, but the grin dropped from his face a moment later when the Immortal cleared his throat again.

_Right_ , he thought, kicking himself. _Still gotta deal with him_.


	3. Chapter 3

To Spike’s mind, it was perfectly simple: Angel would go back to L.A. to sort out his current demon problem, Buffy would tell the Immortal to shove off, and then they’d go back to her apartment and talk things through. Aside from her probably yelling at him for not getting in touch sooner, there wasn’t any flaw to the plan.

Except Angel wasn’t leaving, and the damn Immortal wouldn’t budge either. What was most worrying was Buffy’s reluctance to _make_ them go, or leave them standing there.

“Buffy, I don’t like this, I’m not leaving you here with him.”

She rolled her eyes at Angel before they widened, suddenly. “It’s dripping.”

“What?”

Spike followed her gaze to the bag at Angel’s feet.

“Bloody hell,” he exclaimed, “It’s starting to go off.”

Buffy’s hands went to her hips. “What’s going on?”

Spike couldn’t answer. His undead heart had begun to decay right along with the head in the bag when Buffy had finally dropped his hand without even seeming to notice herself.

The Immortal took the chance to make a grab for it, bringing himself in very close to Buffy’s back. As soon as his cold palm crossed hers, she looked up at Spike, horror in her eyes.

She looked guilty, but she did not drop the Immortal’s hand.

Spike swallowed and hit Angel, who was still jabbering, in the ribs.

“Hey!”

“Just shut up,” said Spike, his eyes not leaving Buffy’s. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan is–” Angel began, and Spike hit him again.

“Thank you,” said Buffy, who was clearly weighing her options. “Let me think. I need–”

“You need to come with me,” said the Immortal, speaking up at last.

And, though he had been convinced it wasn’t possible, Spike’s heart sank further. Buffy had lowered her eyes. Whatever she was doing, she was going to go through with it.

“Buffy?” said Spike, his voice an almost whisper.

Before his eyes, she went into full-mission mode, pushing aside her inner turmoil. “Take Angel to the safe house. I’ll meet you there when I can,” she said, ever the pragmatist, only to add, “We’ll talk,” to Spike with a significant look. It was a promise, no doubt about it.

In the past, he would have challenged her or demanded _some_ kind of answers before moving a muscle, but a lot had happened since then, and he only knew his side of it over the past year.

Spike would never doubt her; he’d made up his mind about that. And plus, Angel was still making enough complaints for the both of them, only pausing when Buffy handed him an address on a piece of paper.

“This is the safe house?” Angel questioned. “Your apartment?”

Buffy looked between him and Spike. “You’ve been there already?”

“We saw Andrew,” said Spike.

She looked surprised but said, “Okay. I’ll see you there. An hour, maybe?”

The Immortal made a noise in the back of his throat and she amended, “Maybe a little longer. Will you wait?”

Angel opened his mouth to answer, but Spike started dragging him away. “I’ll wait,” he promised, resisting the urge to tell Buffy to be safe, or take care. She was good, and he knew that. They’d spent too much time together for him to start doubting her skills or judgment now, but there was also something more going on that he just couldn’t figure out.

\---

Back at the ‘safe house’, it occurred to Spike that Buffy’s scent in the place was faint – enough to suggest she visited, but didn’t live there. Andrew opened the door and Angel strode in, directly over to the couch where he stretched out.

Spike hung back in the doorway a minute as the boy huffed about unannounced visitors and disruptions to his schedule. When he finally paused to take a breath, Spike pounced on him, forcing him back until he was against the wall.

Andrew yelped and Angel stood up, demanding to know what was happening. Without looking at him, Spike asked him to check the fridge.

With brow furrowed, he did. “There’s not much in here. We looking for something?”

“Not enough food for three adults?” asked Spike.

Angel turned his furrowed brow to Andrew. “Buffy doesn’t live here,” he realized aloud.

“Put the head in the fridge,” said Spike, “The smell’s making me itchy. We have a nerd to interrogate.”


	4. Chapter 4

Buffy walked into the safe house just as the sun rose, several hours after she left Spike and Angel in the alley outside the club. She was covered in mud, blood, and vampire dust.

Angel stopped pacing when the door opened, and Andrew looked up from where he was hunched in the corner, his face wet with tears. Spike was on the couch, his eyes firmly fixed on the wall. Silence hung heavy between all of them for a beat.

Still agitated, Angel broke it first. “Buffy, I have business back in L.A. I can’t just be hanging around here.”

“So go,” said Buffy, sighing. She came the rest of the way into the room, standing closer to the couch while still leaving room between it (and Spike), and her.

“I’m serious, Buffy. This is a time-sensitive mission.”

She turned to face him again. “Go,” she repeated, the word forceful this time.

“Buffy–”

“Bloody hell, just sod off already,” said Spike. He stood up and moved around Buffy without looking at her. “Go deal with the demon head and give the rest of us some peace.”

Angel looked between Spike and Buffy and huffed out a breath. “Fine, let’s go.”

Buffy’s eyes widened, but Spike didn’t see. He was too busy digging in his pockets for cigarettes. Once he’d fished one out and put it to his lips, he said to Angel, “Nothin’ left for me in the States.” His voice was monotone, which somehow made the words sound so much more tragic to Buffy’s ears, as if what he was really saying was that there was nothing left for him anywhere, period.

Chest aching, Buffy promised herself she’d set him straight. First, though… “Wait,” she said to Angel, though he still hadn’t moved any closer to the door.

He looked down at her with suddenly hopeful eyes. “Yeah?”

Buffy took a step towards him and pressed her hand to his chest before it became a fist. “If you ever – and I mean, _ever_ – send people to spy on me again, it will be your head in a bag.”

Angel gulped and went to the fridge to retrieve said bag. “Almost forgot this,” he mumbled, eyes downcast.

Spike exclaimed “Bloody hell” under his breath and shut the door in Angel’s face when he finally stepped out into the hall. He had opened his mouth again, but wasn’t given the chance to say anything more.

“Thank you,” Buffy said to Spike for the second time that night. Her shoulders were slumped and eyes heavily lidded. “I really didn’t want to have to deal with him anymore.” Spike made a non-committal noise low in his throat and Buffy bit her lip.

“Look, I…” she hesitated and let her eyes close fully for a second before remembering that Andrew was with them. “What’s up with him?” she asked, blinking at him.

“I didn’t do anything!” Andrew yelled, pulling himself up and running into his room. The door slammed and Buffy flinched. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Do I want to know?”

“No,” said Spike, clicking his lighter to life.

Buffy sighed. “I really have to shower. Will you hang around a bit longer? I…” she hesitated again. “I’m sorry I took so long, but I really think we need to talk.”

Spike nodded, and Buffy went into the room beside Andrew’s.

\---

Andrew continued yelping and pleading for Spike to let him go. “Did you guys find Buffy? Are you evil again? Please don’t kill me! I can be evil too, okay? Please!”

Spike punched the wall beside his head, making a dent. “Shut. Up!”

A whimper left Andrews throat, but he didn’t offer any more words. Content that he was now listening, Spike said, “We’re not evil. We just want some answers.”

“That’s right,” he heard Angel affirm from his position behind him.

Spike glanced over his shoulder and saw him standing with his hands on his hips. “What’s gotten into you? You’re acting like an even bigger berk than usual.”

“Am not!” replied Angel, and Spike rolled his eyes.

“Are you two gonna fight?” asked Andrew. "Because I’d be okay with that. I mean, as long as you leave me out of it. I could stay here and just watch, maybe. Not–”

Spike growled and Andrew went back to whimpering. Grinding his teeth and summoning patience from the powers-that-be knew where, Spike began again. “Buffy, she doesn’t live here.”

Andrew shook his head and avoided Spike’s gaze. “Uh….”

“Hey, we already know that much already, right? No point lying about it.” Andrew swallowed, which Spike took as an affirmation. “Where does Buffy really live?”

Andrew shook his head again, more violently than before.

“Alright,” Spike continued, “Can you tell us why you can’t tell us?”

“N-no.”

Spike sighed. “What is this place?”

“It’s, I mean, I live here.”

Angel threw up his hands. “This is getting us nowhere.”

Agreeing, Spike changed tack. “The Immortal, what do you know?”

It looked as if Andrew was going to avoid the question again but, off Spike’s look, he too changed his mind. “What do _you_ know about him?”

“Bad news if you ask me,” Spike answered. “Buffy trusts him?”

“Well….”

Spike growled again and glared down at Andrew.

“I’m sorry, okay? I can’t tell you anything. I can’t,” cried Andrew, literal tears in his eyes.

Spike stomped over to the couch and caught a look from Angel. “What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, I just–”

“Cut to the bloody case, eh? What are you nattering on about?”

“It’s just that…” Angel paused and changed posture. “When did you become such a hard ass?”

“About the same time you regressed to infancy. I’d say this was Buffy’s influence on you, but I’m sick of her getting the blame for your behavior.”

Angel’s hands went back to his hips. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Spike sighed but didn’t answer. He really was in a foul mood, and most of it had nothing do with Angel or Andrew. It was the downcast look Buffy had when the Immortal said she had to go with him, like she was doing it against her will. Except Buffy wasn’t one to be forced into things.

Rubbing his eyes, Spike resigned himself to the fact that he could only get answers from the Slayer herself. She said she’d be a couple of hours, so it hopefully wouldn’t be too long before they could sort things out.

\---

Buffy came out of the second bedroom with fresh clothes and wet hair. She just opened her mouth to say something to Spike when the front door opened and Dawn barreled in.

Taking one look at Spike, Dawn dropped the four bags she’d been carrying and let out a yelp that put even Andrew’s to shame.


	5. Chapter 5

Buffy wasn’t the only one who’d suffered a double hit of exhaustion, emotional and physical. Partially it was the scent of the demon blood from the head Angel left hanging around too long, partially it was the frustration of having to deal with Angel, Andrew, and the Immortal, partially it was because of the jet lag – and who even knew vampires could get that? – and everything else, but Spike was dead on his feet, pun not intended. His mind was fuzzy, nerves overstretched, and teeth on edge, which was all making him cranky – not exactly the feeling he wanted to be exuding upon seeing the Slayer again.

Seeing Dawn again was the icing on the cake. He wanted to laugh, and cry, and tie her down and sleep for forty-eight hours, come back to where he’d left her and deal with everything then, knowing she hadn’t been able to disappear from his life again in the interim.

Spike almost grinned. The sleep dep. was giving him bad ideas. If Buffy knew he’d even _thought_ about restraining her kid sister for a little bit, he’d be dust no matter what else was happening. No matter that Buffy joked about such things herself. Or used to. And no matter that Dawn wasn’t a kid anymore.

She was standing there, slack-jawed, surrounded by spilled shopping and carrier bags; and she’d grown up a lot in the intervening year. Spike had to swallow past a lump in his throat as he looked at her.

The moment went on torturously long before Dawn turned to Buffy and said, “Is he–”

“He’s real,” affirmed Buffy, “Corporeal and everything.”

And just like that, Dawn launched herself into his arms the same way her sister had done, and again Spike felt like crying, though it was different with her. She was like… not a child, or a kid sister, but something else. Something safe. Something he’d missed more than he realized.

“Bit,” he sighed against her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

“Spike,” she replied in a sob.

He had to pull away for a moment to switch his cigarette to the other hand and tap the ash off the end before it caught her sweater alight, but then they were hugging again and it was the best.

Buffy made a noise – somewhere between amusement and envy, he’d put it – and Spike mentally corrected himself: second best. The Slayer was and always would be number one, no questions asked.

Looking up at her, he was touched to see the torrent of emotions in her eyes again. She was feeling, and it was for him. Another beat, and she joined the hug too. Spike could barely contain himself. For all the pain of the day so far, it was worth it a million times over for that one moment.

And then Andrew was back in the room, looking teary-eyed and wistful as if he wanted to join in too.

The hug swiftly broke apart.

Buffy helped Dawn pick up the shopping and the atmosphere went back to uneasy.

“You won’t want to put that there.”

Dawn looked up at Spike. “What?”

“The fridge. It’ll need a deep clean before you can use it again.” Off Dawn’s continued look of confusion, he added, “Demon head. Don’t ask.”

So she nodded and backed away from the fridge, putting the chilled items she’d brought in the sink and packing ice around them instead. Spike sat himself down on the couch again until the sisters were done and Andrew had, hopefully, wandered off again.

Five minutes later, he couldn’t stand waiting any longer. He’d been awake for far too long, even for a vampire, and was nervous of unraveling again and snapping at someone.

“So you don’t live here,” he said, purposefully keeping his voice even.

“No,” said Buffy. “Yes. I mean, that’s right.”

Spike nodded, though it hadn't been a question. “You live with the Immortal,” he said, and that wasn’t a question either, but Buffy blinked in answer anyway.

“I live in my apartment, with Dawn,” she said after a stunned second.

Spike raised his eyes off his boots. “You’re not with the Immortal, then?”

Buffy’s eyes lowered in turn. “Well, that’s kinda complicated, actually.”

Andrew nodded in agreement with that and Dawn rolled her eyes. “No, it’s not. Buffy’s just pretending to date him for a mission,” she explained.

“That would be a condensed version,” said Buffy, a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

Spike opened his mouth to say something, but he didn’t know what, so it closed again. Buffy wasn’t dating the Immortal. Not really. It was all a line, an act. Spike’s heart leapt in his chest until – he swallowed – until he realized the implication was that Buffy was being forced into behaving affectionately towards someone she had no interest in for the Greater Good.

Spike’s blood boiled. He would murder the Immortal, mission or no. The wanker was probably taking all kinds of sick pleasure in getting Buffy to touch him, and kiss him, and hold his hand. Once more, Spike’s mood shifted and the bottom fell out of his gut as he realized that, not too many years ago, he’d have done the exact same thing.

“Hello? Earth to Spike!” Dawn was saying, waving a hand in front of his eyes. “We thought we’d lost you there.”

“Don’t even joke,” Buffy warned her.

“But he was all with the far-away look,” Dawn said in her defense. Buffy gave her a look and she crossed her arms. “Fine. You’re okay though, right?”

Spike smirked. “Don’t rightly know. Hell of a day.”

“I’ll say,” Buffy piped up again, her scrubbing of the fridge becoming more frantic.

_Ah_ , thought Spike, _here comes the delayed annoyance of me not making contact before_.

“Why don’t you give the shelf a break before it… breaks,” he suggested.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” replied Buffy, her voice suddenly deafening.

_Called it_ , Spike thought errantly, though he wished he hadn’t. Before he could speak up in his defense – not that he had one, really – Buffy continued.

“You came back!” she yelled. It was the worst possible accusation she could hurl, and he felt the weight of it as it hit him square in the chest. After a pause in which Buffy dared him with her eyes to argue and he said nothing, she continued, in a now muted voice. “You came back, and you didn't tell me!” 

“Part of you would have done the same, I'm sure.”

“No,” Buffy said defiantly. “I've run away from my problems before, but you don't have that excuse. You weren't depressed, or scared. You were just–” 

Spike raised his hands in surrender. “Hey! Terrified, remember?” 

She paused in her tirade. Taking a breath, she said, “So it wasn't about coming back.” She leveled her eyes back on the fridge before adding, in a different kind of small voice that she couldn't quite control, “It was because of me.” 

Spike opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted.

“Eh, guys?” said Dawn.

“Yeah?” Buffy and Spike answered in unison, before looking at each other, and then looking away again.

“It wasn't just Buffy.” 

Spike’s expression turned confounded for a moment, until she continued.

“I just wanted to say,” said Dawn, “It wasn't just Buffy that missed you.”


	6. Chapter 6

In a twisted way, Spike loved that Buffy was mad at him. It meant she cared. It might even mean… No. He shook himself, not willing to let his thoughts get too carried away. It didn’t matter, anyway. Her caring at all was enough – more than he could have imagined. And Dawn too? The poet within him hummed with contentment at thoughts of completeness and family.

What the contrary vampire part of him actually replied out loud to Dawn’s statement was, “Yeah, you’re alright too, I suppose.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and Dawn beamed at him, so Spike knew they knew what he really meant. He was trying to hold onto the contentment, but something inside him was stirring: longing for something more. He’d never really been the huggy type before, but now he craved more of the earlier contact and was cursing Andrew for disrupting it.

Looking over at nerd and resisting his urge to bite him, Spike was satisfied that he still wasn’t the huggy type. Not when it came down to anyone but his girls, at any rate.

Buffy finished assaulting the fridge with bleach and Spike’s eyes tracked back to hers. The longing in them obviously wasn’t as shielded as he hoped, because she blushed and looked away again.

Spike ran a hand through his hair and stifled a yawn. He couldn’t fight it anymore. “Could I…” he began, feeling like a right berk. “I need some kip. Can I crash for a bit?”

“Uh, sure,” said Buffy, her tone not sounding at all convinced. She looked to Dawn as if trying to decide something, or as if wanting advice.

“Are you two gonna go back to the apartment?” asked Dawn.

Buffy bit her lip. “I don’t know. We shouldn’t, probably.”

Spike’s heart sank. “Not to worry,” he said, standing to his feet. “I won’t impose.”

“No,” said Buffy, pushing him back onto the couch again. “Stay. I’ll…” she trailed off, still clearly torn.

“You both look wiped,” said Dawn. “Why don’t you stay here and rest? I’ll tell him you’ll swing by later.”

An involuntary growl sounded in Spike’s throat at the mention of ‘him’ and both Buffy and Andrew looked doe-eyed in response. Spike shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ll take the bed in the spare room,” said Buffy, finally resolute. “Spike can take the couch.”

“He can have my room,” Andrew piped up, only to have all three of the others shout him down. He pouted and went back to pretending to read a magazine. After Dawn headed to class, Buffy sent Andrew to his room under pain of death if he disturbed Spike’s rest. Then she stood awkwardly in the doorway of the second bedroom, playing with the top button of her shirt.

“I hate to have to put this off again.”

Spike nodded solemnly. He wanted to have _The Talk_ as much as Buffy, but the prospect of whatever lay on the other side of it was downright – to borrow an already well-used phrase – terrifying. So terrifying that, actually, he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about anything ever again.

Part of Spike wondered how much time and just how close he and Buffy could get without acknowledging the elephant in the room. It’s not like they hadn’t been well acquainted with denial in the past. Except, well, they didn’t want to relive the past, did they? Whatever the future had, it had to be better for having learnt from the past, right?

Spike groaned, his head aching. Buffy gave him a concerned look and he grinned at her before realizing he’d essentially left the conversation to dangle precariously on edge – something else they had plenty of experience in.

“It’s alright,” he drawled, finally.

“No, it’s not,” said Buffy, her eyes firm.

“Right you are.”

Buffy’s hands went to her hips, which Spike took as a warning sign.

“What?” he dared to ask.

“Don’t what me!” Buffy snapped, her tone low so Andrew wouldn’t hear. “How can you be so casual about this?”

“Casual?” Spike repeated. “You think I’m casual?”

“Yeah!”

Spike stood up, which somehow felt necessary in making his point more firm. “Well, I’m not.”

“No?” Buffy questioned.

He took a step towards her, which was enough to bring him into her personal space given the size of the apartment. “No,” he reiterated, looking deep into her eyes.

And then she was kissing him, and he was kissing her, and he was lost, only coming back to himself when Andrew’s door opened and the boy let out a shriek of surprise. Spike looked at him with what must have been murder in his eyes, because Andrew shrieked again and slammed his bedroom door.

Buffy rolled her eyes, pulled Spike into the other bedroom, and shut that door too.

She started pacing, clenching and unclenching her fists as Spike sat on the edge of the bed and watched her, waiting for a cue to talk or do… something.

After a minute, Buffy let out a deep breath and said, “I’m so glad I don’t share a house full-time with him anymore.”

Spike opened his mouth to ask more about the somewhat odd living arrangements and the need for a safe house with a permanent resistant, but decided against it. Buffy had kissed him not two minutes before and he was now sitting on her bed – thoughts about Andrew could bloody well wait.

Reaching out a hand, Spike took hold of Buffy’s wrist and turned her so she was facing him. They locked eyes for a second, then her gaze swiftly settled on her feet, but he didn’t let go and she didn’t seem bothered by the contact. He could tell because she wasn’t punching him in the nose.

Silence reigned for a while, and Spike swallowed. Just as he was about to say something, when Buffy said, “I can’t.”

He dropped her hand.

She looked at him again, her eyes suddenly fierce.

“I want to,” she said, firmly. “Hold you, I mean. Uhh….” She rubbed her temple. “I mean, holding or, kissing or, whatever it was we were about to do, or should be doing – I want that.”

Spike swallowed again. “But?” he pressed.

“But,” said Buffy, “The mission I’m doing at the minute… it’s with vampires. I’m pretending to date the Immortal and–”

“And you can’t go walking around with him, trying to keep up the charade, while covered in some other vamp’s scent,” Spike concluded when the truth set in. It wasn’t a rejection, it was practicalities. Which still stung like a bitch, but the pain was substantially less rational and easier to tell to bugger off.

Buffy sighed. “You know Andrew’s not going to leave you alone out there.”

“Yeah,” Spike grumbled. “Threats only seem to get you so far with him.”

Pursing her lips, Buffy looked between Spike and the bed behind him.

“I could take the floor,” he suggested.

“I’m not making you sleep on the floor.”

“Not making, letting,” said Spike.

“Fine,” said Buffy, “I’m not _letting_ you sleep on the floor.”

“Well if–”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor either, don’t even suggest it.”

Spike grinned and Buffy’s frown melted.

“Ah, screw it,” she said, taking hold of his arm and dragging him under the covers, the both of them still fully dressed. “I can shower before heading out later.”

It was on the tip of Spike’s tongue to tell her that showering wouldn’t get rid of several hours of prolonged contact, but the thought was interrupted by sleep and the reality of not caring very much.


	7. Chapter 7

Along the foggy border between consciousness and not, Spike had vague awareness of Buffy wriggling around in the bed next to him. And what a glorious thought that was.

Eyes snapping open, he peered at her intently, tempted to ask if she was real. The question had been bandied about a lot that day – or, what was it, thirty-odd hours? – but it was a bloody good question that bared repeating. Spike just couldn’t believe his luck.

“You alright?” he asked when she continued to fidget.

“No,” she said, huffing out a breath. “Uncomfortable.”

Spike’s eyes tracked across to where her jeans had twisted at the waistband and then down to where they bunched up around her knees. He couldn’t help but grin to himself.

“Why don’t you take them off?” he suggested, and Buffy stilled, looking up at him.

“I didn’t want to scare you away,” she said, her voice vulnerable.

Spike laughed at the absurdity of it, and she blushed. “You think your unclothed self is gonna scare me off? Have you grown tentacles since I saw you last?”

“No,” said Buffy, punching him lightly in the arm. “Don’t tease.”

“Alright, alright,” he relented. “Serious, here. Take them off. I’m not going anywhere.”

Buffy caught him in a searing look. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” said Spike, his voice and heart going soft.

Satisfied, she sighed and pulled herself out of bed, took off her outdoor clothes and pulled on an oversized t-shirt before slipping back under the covers and snuggling into Spike, who was suddenly finding his own clothes painfully restrictive.

“What’s wrong?” she asked when he stiffened next to her.

“Err, nothing,” he replied.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I can tell when something is wrong. Is it– is it me? It’s me, isn’t it? Oh, god, this was a mistake.” She moved as if to get up again, but Spike reached for her and held her fast.

He definitely didn’t want her to go, but he didn’t want to spook her and have _her_ running away from _him_ , either. Unwilling to watch her insecurities eat at her any longer, Spike took a risk and moved them so that she felt exactly where he was having the… issue.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes wide. “You – uh… you need space?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “No, you nit. I need to get out of these jeans.”

“Oh. Okay,” said Buffy, her blush returning with force.

“Is it– bloody hell this is awkward –do you mind?”

“No,” said Buffy, and suddenly he realized they’d both been saying that word a lot. He guessed they were both as terrified as each other about this thing they didn’t quite have yet.

Releasing her, Spike stood up. Facing away from Buffy, he unbuttoned his jeans and was about to drop them to the floor when his hands stilled over the flies.

“What’s wrong?” she asked again.

Spike cursed himself. “I didn’t think this through,” he answered, after a pause.

“What?” He heard Buffy sit up in bed behind him. “What’s– oh.” She began to giggle. She hardly ever giggled. It was like music to his ears. “You still don’t wear anything underneath, do you?”

Spike shook his head and went to button up again. “Doesn’t matter,” he said gruffly, until he found her hand on his.

Buffy’s hand was on top of Spike’s, which was over his way-too-awake, half-exposed penis. He swallowed, waiting for her to speak.

“Just...” she began, her voice shaky. “Take them off. Just come to bed. I won’t…” she bit her lip. “I won’t do anything.”

And, though he was sure it wasn’t possible, Spike became harder, his heart swelling right along with. Bravery soaring, he turned and caught Buffy’s gaze properly. “I want you,” he said, putting himself fully out there just like he promised himself he wouldn’t.

“I want you,” replied Buffy, her entire face crimson. “More sleep?”

Spike grinned. “More sleep,” he agreed. It sounded like an excellent plan, especially when it came with potential side-quests of spooning and Other Things.

Undressing himself with supernatural speed, he was back in the bed and nuzzling Buffy again within moments. She let out a contented sigh and they both lost consciousness again a moment later, only waking up to the sound of the phone ringing.

Spike blinked, not sure how much time had passed. It was dark outside, and he must have turned in his sleep, because Buffy was wrapped around him, her arms and legs possessive of his limbs.

Still half asleep, she kind of growled at the interruption, which he found both unbelievably adorable and incredibly hot.

Spike’s lower half woke up and jabbed Buffy in the thigh, which brought her the rest of the way to consciousness. She blushed – a feature which he was really starting to like – and ducked her eyes before looking up again to catch him up in another searing look. At which point Spike opened his mouth and inserted his foot, breaking the moment.

“Phone,” he said, lamely pointing out the offending device on the nightstand that Buffy hadn’t seemed to notice.

She sighed and rolled over towards it, clicking it off. “It’s probably just Dawn telling me I’m needed. Anton’s probably pitching a fit.”

Spike’s eyebrows shot up. “Anton?” he repeated.

“Yeah, you know, the Immortal.”

“The Immortal’s real name is Anton?”

Buffy shrugged. “Sure. This century, anyway.”

“Anton,” Spike said again.

Rolling her eyes, Buffy said, “It’s really not that weird.”

Spike made a scoffing noise but let it drop. “What is it you’re helping him with exactly anyway?”

“Oh, it’s just–” Buffy was cut off by the sound of her ringtone starting up again. She snatched the phone up and accepted the call with another eyeroll. “Okay, okay, I’m coming. Keep your hair on, jeez!”

And just like that, she was up, getting dressed and leaving the bed to cool in a way that was much too familiar for Spike’s liking.

“Think I’m gonna have to skip the shower,” Buffy said to him while she was tying her hair up, facing the mirror and unable to see his face switch from a scowl to a grin.

“Err, yeah. Right,” he mumbled. “Wouldn’t want to keep Anton waiting.”

Buffy ignored him, paying particular attention to her makeup instead. Two minutes later, she was out the safe house door and on her way to her own apartment. And a half hour after that, she came back in through the door, a mixture of amusement and exasperation playing across her face.

Spike gazed up at her from a copy of ‘Italian for Dummies.’ “Didn’t go to plan?”


	8. Chapter 8

Spike set down the book he’d liberated from Andrew as Buffy closed the front door and walked towards him, her eyes meeting his in a searing look. He’d seen the look before, it was one tigers and worked up Slayers shared just before they pounced. Swallowing, he ignored the urge to shift in his seat.

“I was talking with Anton three seconds,” Buffy began conversationally. “Three seconds, and months of prep work was called off.”

“Oh,” said Spike, trying to keep his tone even so as not to betray how wary he was of where Buffy might be going with her faux-calm and heated gaze mix.

“Yeah. Turns out, I scent thing was a real deal breaker. I offered to do it another night, but apparently it would take more than a shower to get really clean, and I couldn't promise him that I wouldn’t end up getting more scent on me.”

Choosing not to focus on the most tantalizing part of that sentence, Spike dared to ask, “It?”

“The ball,” said Buffy.

Spike’s brow furrowed. “Ball?”

She was standing right in front of him now, hands on her hips, and they were having what would have been a perfectly normal conversation – for them, anyway – if it wasn’t for all the subtext and smoldering looks that were only increasing in intensity as they spoke.

“I was supposed to be Anton’s date to a few key social engagements between this big supernatural crowd,” Buffy explained. “To help him prove to this gang of vamps that we were on the same side, so they’d work with him.”

“Uh….” Spike blinked, not sure which track of the conversation to follow. Buffy still very much had the look of a predator at play, and it was causing a very distracting… _distraction_ in his pants. Deciding to do the noble thing, he made a decision. Too much had been put off much too long already.

“Have you eaten?”

In an instant, the look on Buffy’s face turned surprised, then confused, finally settling on disappointed. Spike cursed himself, but carried on. _I’ve started, might as well bloody finish._

“There’s no blood here. We could go out, get me a rare steak and you a…” he paused, trying to remember what dish it was she’d said she loved during her date with Dawn’s high school principal. That place had been Italian, hadn’t it? He shook himself, not really wanting to remember.

Buffy gave him a tentative smile. “Pizza,” she said, now seemingly pleased at the prospect of yet more changed plans. Not that Spike really knew what she had been planning before, exactly. Based off how much he knew _her_ , it was probably a painful night of either variety.

Was she still giving him mixed signals, or was he overthinking it? Really, he couldn’t tell. Though it could be both. And maybe he was giving her mixed signals, too.

With a wry smile of his own, Spike said, “Lot of things still not quite set straight in my head.”

Buffy’s mouth dropped. “God, how long have you been back from the dead? Should I have given you longer?” And wasn’t that reaction a real kick in the pants. Sweet, but also dangerous, because now he had to tell her.

“At first, I came back not quite me,” Spike explained, hoping it would make the news a bit less volatile. “I was a ghost. Or not quite. Then I was an undead non-ghost some other spook was trying to kill. You’d think my condition would give me some kinda double jeopardy status on the whole dying thing at this point, but apparently not.”

Buffy frowned, and he added, “I know. Not bloody fair.”

“How long?” she asked again, not at all swayed by the extra detail. _Bugger._

“A few months,” Spike finally admitted, eyes focused on his fingernails, which he suddenly had the urge to paint again. He missed painting nails – both his and Dru’s. Buffy would never let him try on her. “But before you say anything,” he barreled on, still not looking up, “I was this ghost thing, right? I couldn’t touch anything. Couldn’t leave L.A., in fact.”

“Could other people see you?”

Spike had to close his eyes entirely. The confessing thing was not getting any easier. “Most of the time,” he admitted, very, very quietly.

“And how long did it last? The you not being able to touch, or leave thing.”

_Shit, bugger, damn._ He’d have to face it. Steeling himself, Spike opened his eyes and looked up at Buffy, expecting to see ire looking back at him. What he saw instead broke him.

Buffy had tears in her eyes.

None of the curse words Spike knew did justice anymore. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “Really, truly sorry, Slayer. I–” god damn it, but he had to look down again to stop himself from crying and burdening her with that on top of everything else. “I promised myself I wouldn’t hurt you again.”

Movement caught his eye, from the very corner of his vision, and Spike willed himself to be strong. He would look up and he would keep looking up, no matter what happened. If he’d hurt Buffy – and he was sure he had – then he deserved her wrath and shouldn’t be trying to minimize or shield himself from it.

God, she was shaking. Silent sobs coursed through her and it was all Spike could do not to reach for her and wrap her up in his arms.

“Spike,” she said, the name coming out a pained whimper as she held out her hand. He took it, hating himself for how much he loved the fact she wanted comfort – _his_ comfort – and that she’d wanted him as much as he wanted her.

When he was standing just inches away, one hand in hers, she slapped him, swiftly pulling him into a hug before he could react. It was so tight it would no doubt leave him covered bruises for a week.

Caught between love of her and loathing of himself – her sobs still continuing in his ear – Spike held still, waiting for whatever reaction came next. When the hug that wasn’t so much a hug as a squeezing contest went on into its third minute, it occurred to Spike that there was a pattern to how Buffy had treated him. There had been disbelief, and anger. Excusing the brief moments when it looked like she might eat him, there was this extreme sadness. Or, to give it its more technical name: grief.

Buffy had been grieving for him. He’d been a moron for not seeing it sooner, or thinking that grand gestures or any of that other rot meant anything to her. What mattered to the Slayer most was being around. The trait she valued most was most definitely the act of not leaving. How could he have forgotten that? He could blame Angel for getting in his head and, yeah, that was part of it. But mostly, Spike realized, he had lost faith in Buffy. In what they had.

What they had was always, always in question. But it was always _something_ , and it was always there. Even now, as Spike feared he’d screwed up things for the very last time, he knew they’d never be done. Not really. Not for good.

“Buffy,” he whispered, his hand sneaking up to cradle her head. “I’m sorry.”

She took a shuddering breath and said, “Don't do it again.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “You’ve got me, now. You’ve always got me.”

There was no pretense now. No subtext. It was all text, written clearly in such a big font even a blind person could read it. Spike felt like Buffy had taken the book and hit him around the head with it, and he was glad of the violence.

“Buffy,” he said again, thrilled at the sound of her name on his lips. He pulled back a little, keeping his hands on her shoulders as he looked deep in her eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

\---

Spike died. He couldn’t move, but the earth shifted and swallowed him up. The plane he’d been on with Angel must have crashed, because there was no way it could be real.

“N-no,” he stammered.

“Yes, dammit!” said Buffy. “Why won’t you believe me? I love you.” She pulled away completely and screamed it. “I love you, you asshole!”

Tears were coming down his face again, the stream steady.

“Buffy–”

“Stop saying my name and tell me you mean it!” Buffy yelled, her voice cracking it got so high.

“I mean it, I mean it!” Spike declared, the words coming out of him urgently, with no filter. “I believe you, I love you!”

She swung into his arms again, her body violently crashing into his as she kissed and bit his neck, ran her nails down his arms and assaulted all the exposed flesh she could reach with her tongue.

Spike was about to pant her name, but resisted. His body fought her back, landing just as many sharp kisses as she gave out. She pushed him and his back hit a wall. He leaned into her and she ground against him, panting herself. It was so much like it had been that first time, but so different too; the entire world off its axis.

With frantic, fumbling hands, one of them found the door handle. They pushed into the spare room and fell together on the bed, a mess of limbs. Buffy had to pull back to get her breathing back under control. The looks she was giving him – all of the ones she’d shared with him since he seen her again – were pinning Spike up; keeping him alive in his undead state. They were real. All of it was happening. Buffy was holding nothing back.

“Wait,” he said, went she went to kiss him again.

Buffy’s mouth dropped open and her round, perfect eyes clouded a little in response.

“I want to do this right,” Spike told her. “I love you, Buffy. Let’s not play at this.”

Anger flared through her again, clear as day. “I’m not playing.”

“I know, kitten,” he soothed. “I’m not exactly picking my best words here, right? I just don’t want to bugger this up.”

She took a little breath then said, “Okay.”

“I want you,” said Spike, though the sentiment was beyond redundant. “I love you, and I want you, and I believe you, Slayer. Let’s just– I can’t believe I’m saying this, but let’s–”

“Let’s let it take forever,” said Buffy. “God, I want that too. I’ve wanted it for so long, and it scared me. But then I thought it was too late, and you were gone. And I never thought I’d find anyone– I thought it didn’t matter if I slept around or went on stupid dates to fool vampires and fix crazy, stupid power struggles. None of it mattered. I thought I lost my chance and–”

“I know,” said Spike, “We’ve been damned stupid leaving it this long.”

“But this is it,” said Buffy. “This is us now?” There were unshed tears in her eyes again. The sight of them almost burned Spike up from the inside out.

“You’ve got me, Buffy,” he told her. “Not leavin’ you again.”

“Good,” she said, pinpricks of tears escaping down her already smudged cheeks, forced out when the corners of her mouth went up in a blinding, earnest smile that Spike swore he’d never forget.

“I love you,” Buffy said ardently. “I’m gonna keep telling you; gonna be better at being open.”

If Spike’s heart expanded any more, there would be a big enough hole in his chest to drive a semi-truck through. “We’ll do it,” he said. “All in.”

Buffy took his hand, then his other hand, and then she pushed him down onto the bed, kissing his cheeks before assaulting him in another hug. “All in,” she agreed, in a sigh, as they lay there, entangled.


	9. Epilogue

Buffy called Dawn and asked her to bring some blood over, then phoned a restaurant down the street and got them to bring pizza and a couple of beers. She and Spike lay atop the bed, eating and chatting like teenage girls on sugar highs.

“Can you believe it’s been a year?” said Buffy. “Like, almost a year. It’s insane.”

“Insane is right,” Spike agreed, picking a piece of pepperoni off his slice of pizza and feeding it to her. For all the confessions and opening up there had been, he wasn’t quite ready to tell her he’d been counting the days. She’d probably start crying again, and that would get him going, and then they’d have fraught, emotionally charged sex and– wait. He’s lost track of his reasoning somewhere and wasn’t quite sure why any of that would be a bad thing, even if it did run the risk of the pizza getting cold and the bear warming up.

Buffy giggled, the sound bringing Spike back to himself. “Wow, you’re mister far away guy,” she remarked.

“It’s a minefield,” said Spike.

Buffy nodded. “Almost too much to take in.”

“Regret any of it?” he questioned.

“Hell no!”

Spike beamed at her. She really was staying true to her promise of not holding anything back. “I love you,” he told her again, because he couldn’t help it and was getting drunk on the power of her saying it back.

“I love _you_ ,” she repeated, her smile dazzling like the sun. He didn’t think the novelty would soon wear off for either of them.

After consuming three large pies between them, Buffy stretched out, her legs laying on top of his. Holding her belly, she groaned the groan of a good Thanksgiving and wiggled her toes. Boots and shoes had been abandoned when they’d gotten back to the bed after collecting food from the delivery guy at the front door. Buffy had tasked Dawn with keeping Andrew out of the way for as long as possible.

“Want me to paint those?”

Buffy looked up. “My toenails? You’d do that?”

“Sure,” said Spike with a shrug, pretending he was nonchalant about the thought of her turning down the offer.

“Okay!” agreed Buffy, twisting her body so she could reach behind her into the drawer of the nightstand and retrieve a bottle of glossy black polish. She didn’t catch Spike’s look of wonderment.

“I can do yours after, if you want,” she offered, causing Spike to abandon his pizza and catch her up in a kiss.

“Woah,” she exclaimed, when the moment passed. “Remind me to suggest that more often.”

“I will,” he vowed, inspecting the bottle and setting about his task. A comfortable silence filled the room as he worked. Then, as he reached the second to last toe, he said, “How come you can order food to this place if it’s a safe house? What’s it keeping you safe from if having strangers visit and see you here isn't a problem?”

“Oh, that’s for Anton,” said Buffy.

Spike paused to throw her a quizzical look.

“Giles said there was a chance he might turn on us,” she explained. “He doesn't have an invite here, so this is where I escape to when I can’t stand his beady little eyes or grabby hands any longer.”

Anger flared in Spike’s chest at the thought of the Immortal taking liberties, but he chose not to voice his annoyance. There was no point, now. The mission had been called off.

“Andrew said you lived here,” Spike told her. “He said you were always snuggled up with him.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Andrew says a lot of things. He had this whole big fantasy about how we were made for each other, but it was all just crap he’d superimposed from one of his romance novels.”

“Huh,” said Spike. He could believe that. “Andrew. Is he… you know?”

“Is he out yet? Not quite, but he’s getting there. We think it will be soon.”

Spike nodded. He hoped the boy would be considerably less inclined to indulge in fantasyland once he admitted the truth. He’d be damn near unbearable otherwise.

“Dawn’s in school?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Buffy, pride exuding from all of her pores. “She’s really applied herself. It’s amazing.”

Spike smiled. “Good for her. And good on you. Joyce would be right proud of both of you.”

Buffy shook her head. “I think losing Sunnydale made her realize some stuff, but I didn’t really have much to do with it. Honestly? After you were gone I was kind of a mess.”

Spike’s heart pulsed in joy and pain. “Sorry, love,” he said, softly.

Buffy smiled again. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, now. All that other stuff doesn’t matter.”

Returning her smile, Spike returned the lid with the little brush in it back into the pot of nail varnish and handed it to Buffy. “All done.”

The Slayer wiggled her toes once more, inspecting the job from various angles.

“Oh, you’re good,” she exclaimed.

“I am now,” Spike replied, earnestly.

She looked at him, her eyes soft as she squeezed his hand. “Okay, your turn. Hold it out.”

Spike did as she asked, turning his hand this way and that so she didn’t miss any bits. “What have you been doing all this time?” Buffy asked him.

“Helping Angel,” said Spike. She gave him a look, and he grinned, modifying his answer. “Annoying Angel.”

She couldn’t help but smile. Spike had never seen her so happy. Silently, he vowed to help her stay that way as long as possible.

“So, did you come over here for the Immortal mission, or did that come up after you got here?”

“After,” said Buffy. “Slayers were activating all over the world. So, the gang split up to try and find them all. Dawn needed to stay in school so, when I came here, she enrolled and I stuck around a bit. She’s super settled. She even has a boyfriend!”

Spike blew out a breath. “Little bit’s growing up.”

“Tell me about it,” Buffy sighed.

“So what’s for it now?”

“Huh?”

“Plans,” said Spike. “Got any?”

Buffy pouted. “Oh. No. Not really. Giles is in Scotland running a kind of base of operations. Now this mission is cleared up, I should check in with him. He’ll probably say there’s demon activity around or blah blah blah. I won’t stay idle long.”

With a gleam in his eye, Spike asked, “What would happen if, say, you didn’t tell him for a few days? Or, horror upon horrors, you actually took a holiday?”

“I can take a holiday,” said Buffy. “And I will. Just watch me.”

“Intend to,” said Spike, his grin growing ever wider.

Nails dry and no other pressing matter to attend to, they gave into being together. Totally and completely, nothing held back at all.


End file.
